


nightingale

by silentsonata



Series: nice but inaccurate oneshots [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Nightingale Sings in Berkeley Square (Good Omens), Angst, Good Omens Angst, M/M, Pining, Song-inspired, Songs, the church scene turns out differently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: In which a nightingale sings a lonely song in Berkeley Square.





	nightingale

The single most humbling experience in contemporary society is to walk, alone, in a thick crowd at night, keenly aware of every conversation that passes, every bond strengthened by the festive atmosphere.

Snakeskin boots struck Mayfair’s pavement like the dry cadences of an ancient prophecy, devoid of their usual lilt. Crowley kept his head down and his hands in his pockets, moving against the flow of tourists and Londoners alike, picking up bits of conversation along the way. _What if I buy you dinner? We could have crepes for dessert. _But these people were pushing to see the winter light show, and he couldn’t get far enough away from it. There is no such thing as darkness in a city that never shuts its eyes in peaceful slumber – there was no place of comfort for Crowley to lurk.

It was blinding. The luminescent installations, yes, but also the smiles around him. And the laughter, the murmur of electric power, even the cheerful pop music that blasted over the speakers, assaulted his ears. The sounds weren’t loud, but they didn’t have to be for Crowley to shut his eyes.

The dark sunglasses he wore religiously did nothing to help block the cruelly happy world out.

The moon lingered over London, a lover casting a final glance before leaving, and Crowley looked up at it, scowling. What right did it have to mimic Aziraphale’s softness with its pale glow, unable to even hold a candle to his gentleness?

How _dare_ it hang there in the sky that Crowley had dotted with constellations, mocking how he would never see Aziraphale again?

Crowley drove his heels deeper into the pavement as he made a left into St James’ Park. The asphalt road glinted under the streetlamps, as if stars had been plucked from the heavens and embedded in the path. He wondered if they were fallen stars. As the ground underfoot changed from cobblestone to dirt, the river of people became a weak trickle, like a tear down London’s cheek.

Aziraphale had turned his whole darn world upside-down. And then he’d rummaged through everything and left with Crowley’s heart. Crowley sat down on a bench, looking out at the lake. Maybe it would have been better if he had never asked for a favour. Maybe it would have turned out pear-shaped either way. Aziraphale liked pears, Crowley remembered as he dug his fingers into the side of his legs. How was he meant to know that it would be the last time they ever talked?

He had never gotten the chance to apologise. Never gotten the chance to hear Aziraphale giggle again, see him smile again, or dine with him again. He’d never forgiven himself for letting the last words Aziraphale heard from him be “I don’t need you” and not “Stay, I love you.” Their relationship had hung in limbo, unfinished like some great symphony abandoned by its creator, and now it left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The burden of possibility, of _what if_, pressed down on Crowley’s chest like an accusing finger. _Why didn’t you apologise first? Why did you have to be so selfish, so proud, so arrogant, so everything-a-demon-is-meant-to-be?_

Perhaps Aziraphale didn’t need him, but Crowley – Crowley needed Aziraphale. Look at him now, in this pathetic state. Crowley had miracled away the dark circles under his eyes for the first few days, but he’d given up on trying to fool himself long ago.

_What if you’d been just a bit earlier? _Crowley hissed at the thought like it was a smarting blow. Even after all this time, the wound was raw. He remembered throwing the doors open with a bang – no, it was _to _a bang – and a thud. He remembered the glance he cast to the altar, the glance that didn’t capture Aziraphale’s silhouette against the candlelight. Desperately, foolishly, he tried to convince himself to have hope that Aziraphale hadn’t even come to the rendezvous, that he hadn’t even been involved in this in the first place, that maybe, _maybe_ he’d just gotten it all wrong this time.

The crushing truth appeared before his eyes too soon. There Aziraphale was, shot, crumpled on the ground like an unfinished love letter. Not even stopping time could keep him alive now. And no matter how powerful Crowley was, no matter how composed he thought he was, there were just some things he couldn’t change. There were some things he couldn’t bear to see. Before he realised it himself, Crowley had brought down not one, not two, but three bombs on the church, snarling.

And as the ceiling collapsed, Crowley cradled Aziraphale in his arms, yellow eyes aflame, wings shrouded around Aziraphale to protect his inanimate corporation from the falling stones in a mournful caricature of the first time they met. This time, Crowley was the one shielding Aziraphale from the hot ash and embers raining down on them.

God had decreed that the world would end in fire and flame. She had never told Crowley that it was also how _his_ world would end.

As Crowley emerged from the dust and smoke amidst the burning church, holding the bag of Aziraphale’s books, he most definitely wasn’t crying. Demons didn’t cry. Not even when the person they loved the most might never return. Crowley wasn’t crying at all. Sure, they had often discorporated each other but this time, Crowley didn’t know if Aziraphale would be coming back to meet him. Not after how they had parted. Not this time.

And surely enough, Aziraphale didn’t return. That bag of books sat in Crowley’s apartment for years afterwards, a lost pet waiting for its owner. And now, Crowley was here again, at St James, rubbing salt into his own wound as a few straggling ducks made their ways across the lake. Pathetic, he thought.

Crowley hunched over, and only the keenest observer would have noticed that he was shaking. Demons didn’t cry, he told himself. Then what were these hot tears running down his face? “Aziraphale,” he breathed unsteadily, “Come back.” Walls had ears. Trees had ears. Ducks had ears. But he wanted them all to hear, wanted them to carry the message to wherever Aziraphale was, wanted Aziraphale _back_, as selfish as that was.

_You’re a demon, that’s what you are_.

But he knew that not even angels would return after they had been hurt. Not for all the Ritz dinners in the world. Aziraphale would have loved the Ritz, he thought. Not for all the midnight waltzes time could give. Not for all the apologies his lips could form. The soft remnants of a melody bore themselves across the lake to Crowley, accusatory even with its soothing tone.

It reminded Crowley that he could have kissed him at the Ritz and bid him goodnight if he hadn’t been so completely and irrevocably _himself_. He could have escorted him home, footsteps as light as a gavotte. But he was perfectly willing to swear that he would have given the world to see Aziraphale again, turning, smiling. As the melody drew to a close, Crowley tried to smile, but this blatant lie only made the tears come faster, hotter, stinging more than before. Maybe demons did cry.

_And like an echo far away,_  
_A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._  
_ I know 'cause I was there, that night in Berkeley Square._

**Author's Note:**

> i love this song so much that i had to ruin it for myself
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://silent--sonata.tumblr.com/)   
[Chat to me on Discord!](https://discord.gg/pTcajxx)   



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